The House of the Rising Dead
by dropbearaboveyou
Summary: Dean deals with the voodoo thing in New Orleans and a mysterious assassin who can't be stopped. Pre-Series.
1. Chapter 0-5: A Rose for Emil

_New Orleans, Louisiana._

The smiling old woman wrapped the thick collection of yellow, pink and red flowers in paper, keeping an eye on the young man over her shoulder as she did so, some long dead singer crooning on the radio to old-time jazz. "You sure you want to do this alone Emil?" she asked, her eyes worried over her apple cheeks. "It wasn't your fault what happened…." The young man looked up from his scruffy boots for the first time, peering at the dumpy old woman through the curtains of his lanky hair.

"Yes it was, Mrs. Appleby," he said simply, the old florist offering a sympathetic smile over the counter as he stuck his hands further into his pockets. "D-do you think she'd like them?" `_Well I'm goin' to New Orleans….'_

"Take it from me hon," Mrs. Appleby said strolling into the back room to get a length of ribbon, her voice drifting through the doorway as Emil eyed the black and white photo's on the wall without really seeing them, "all girls like flowers from her sweetheart. Although," she added, coming out with a single dark red rose in her hands, "roses always worked the best. A rose for Emil." He took it from her as she tied the ribbon around the bouquet, wincing slightly as one of the thorns cut into the ball of his thumb. "Oh no, sweetheart, here," she cried, passing over an embroidered handkerchief. "I'm so sorry dear."

"I'm fine," Emil assured her, pressing the handkerchief against his thumb. "Just a scratch, Mrs. A, really. Uh nice music, by the way." Mrs. Appleby tutted, trying to hide a smile. `_When I see the Mardi Gras, I wana know what carnival's for….'_

"I know dear, but you've been through so much recently, and now I've gone and done this."

"Yeah, well, life," Emil muttered, his jaw tight as he tossed the bloodstained handkerchief back over the counter and snatching up the flowers. Yellow primrose and bird's-foot-trefoil, pink lobelias and carnations: the sweet scent was almost overpowering sticky. "What do I owe you?"

"Oh, _hon_, it's free of charge," Mrs. Appleby said, plucking the rose off the counter where the young man had dropped it, slipping it into the center of the bouquet, before reaching up to pat his check over his mumbled protests. "But you have to promise to take care now. Be back home before sunset, especially with all these disappearances. Your dear old mother's got to have someone to look after her after-."

"I-I understand," he said holding up a hand. "Thanks but-."

"We've had far too much death here," the little old lady continued firmly. "Everybody's lost someone, Emil. So don't you go shutting yourself out-you hear? Getting yourself hurt. If there's one thing I don't hold with, it's being selfish.

"Guess that's what I'm good at." Emil muttered.

"Now don't you go believing' what that lot is telling you." The old lady held up a warning finger. Emil nodded closing his mouth. "It wasn't your fault. Now say it back to me."

"It … wasn't my fault." he whispered.

"Good," Mrs. Appleby said. "Now you try an' believe that young man." Emil nodded slowly, squaring his skinny shoulders, muttering a small thank you.

"I promise Mrs. Appleby."

The old woman smiled. "That's all I ask." The bell chimed as a giggling couple walked in, Emil skirting around them into the warm, buttery afternoon sunlight "Now what can I do for you dears?" _`When I get to New Orleans, I wanna see the Zulu King.'_

Long after sunset, Emil stumbled into the unlit room, the last remaining beer bottle dropping from his fingers and rolling away under one of the dark red moth-eaten seats. Another, half empty and soon to be finished, occupied the other hand. He took a swig, collapsing into one of the last chairs before the stage. The theatre had long been out of business - kids in the neighborhood would often dare each other to go in. Once in a while someone would talk about restoring it or bulldozing it entirely but never loudly and never for long. The streets were still bustling outside, but somewhere in the darkness, something moved.

Emil caught up in drinking and moaning at the empty stage didn't notice as he tipped the final drops down his throat and tossed the bottle behind him. There was the dull thud of it hitting flesh. Emil turned, saw what was coming and jerked to his feet, mouth opening wide to scream.

He never got the chance, but the teenagers who found him, with his neck snapped at an almost clean 90-degrees, took a long while to stop.


	2. Chapter 1: Goin' Down to New Orleans

3 days, 60 hours and 2170 miles since leaving Nebraska, Dean Winchester was finally nearing New Orleans. '_Ridin' down the highway, Goin' to a show...' _He was only half paying attention to the road, emptier then it had been three years ago, thinking back to the motel room three nights previous. '_Stop in all the byways, Playin' rock 'n' roll...'_

"Where have you been?" John Winchester had demanded without looking up from his journal.

Dean, who'd been getting food from the pretty checkout girl who could do bird noises, maybe/defiantly getting her number as well, lifted up a plastic bag in defense. The television was playing the same grainy back and white film it had for the past week or so, the hunter in a big dark coat walking through a shipyard full of giant metal containers.

"You've been watching that footage for days Dad. Gonna tell me why it's so important?" he'd asked with a quickly fading smile as he fished out a bag of peanut M&amp;Ms. John hadn't answered, so Dean had watched as the hunter on the screen stopped in the center of a crossroad of metal shipping containers, caught between four different paths - two to either side, one in front and one behind, each blocked by two figures each. Out of the eight, three were woman, but all were middle-aged, and all were baring their teeth and snarling.

"Y'know I never get tired of watching this guy cleaving through monsters," Dean had said, grinning as he shoveled a handful of M&amp;Ms into his mouth, the monsters rushing in only for the fastest to get his head lopped off in one clean blow to the neck. The hunter let the momentum pull his sword around and down to slice open the stomach of the heavy-set redneck who'd tried to creep up from behind. "You ever come across this guy?"

"No one has," John had said, actually looking up this time. "Jim thinks he's the Bás Rócas." Dean snorted.

"You mean the story Caleb was talking about last year?" he had asked, glancing back at the screen, where the apparent 'Bás Rócas' had his sword embedded in the back of the final ghoul, right through the heart. "The Bás Rócas is a myth, Dad. Probably just a normal hunter, taking a leaf out of the Bat's book. A little fear and mystery to make the dumb ones run scared. Y'know, '_It's time for my enemies to share my dread'_ '_theatricality and deception are powerful weapons'_ sort of thing."

"I'm not interested in the _myth_ Dean," John had snapped as he'd gotten to his feet. "Whoever he is, if he's _half_ as good as the stories say, he might know something about it." There was no need to ask what it was; it had been the same thing for almost as long as Dean could remember.

"Yes sir."

"I think there's a job down in New Orleans," John had continued tossing a newspaper to his son.

"A drunk broke his neck at a run down old theater," Dean had noticed, dropping it on his bed. "Something that makes this stand out?"

"The death count to 13 mysterious deaths, not including disappearances since Katrina. All around the same theatre."

"Vengeful spirit?" he'd suggested.

"Maybe." John had frowned at the general direction of his son. "I want you to head down there first thing tomorrow."

"Yes, sir." Dean had said, glancing at his father out of the corner of his eyes.

"20 men have gone missing outside a place called Jericho." John had continued as if Dean hadn't said anything, scooping up his keys. "All on the same stretch of road. I'm going to go dig around."

"Now?" Dean had asked, looking out at the setting sun. John nodded, slipping the video out of the VCR.

"I want us both to make good time," John had told him as he gave him the video. "I had a copy made. I want you to keep an eye out for this guy. You understand?" Dean had nodded, a smile plastered on his face and everything, and John clapped his son on the shoulder before stepping out into the night. "Call me when it's done. Good luck Dean."

The chorus pulled him back to the present. _It's a long way to the top if you wanna rock 'n' roll...'_

The Bás Rócas: a hunter that could kill the average werewolf like swatting a fly. The way Caleb had told it, the Bás Rócas had been hand-picked by Batman or something, then trained to Terminator perfection. He would track down his charge; ignoring anything else in pursuit, and when he found them, he'd kill them. Stab through the heart, so the stories went, even if he's supposed killings ranged from beheading to disembowelment. Then the Bás Rócas would just disappear, never to be seen again, until he was given another charge.

Dean snorted. "Impossible," he muttered under his breath. The Bás Rócas was a story, something hunters told stories about round a campfire, to try to give each other some new nightmares, the most common one said he was the reason Jack the Ripper had disappeared, stabbed through the heart and dumped in the Thames_._

_The nightmare was an old one: the man with the rotting insides and decomposing skin was coming down the corridor as she tried to crawl away slowly bleeding out of the gaping hole in her thigh, leaving a trail of dark red blood in her wake. The walls, damp and dripping, made any attempt to stand futile, A door into a darken room was open, and in she crawled, ignoring the electric shocks being sent through her system as she inched forward, progressively weaker and the blood stained killer slowly closing the gap between them. In the dream, when she felt the hand, cold and leathery and stained with centuries old blood, close in on her ankle, the sword didn't come loose from its stone like sheath. Instead, her hand, slick with the blood of both others and herself, slipped from the leather grip, and she was dragged out of the shadows and flipped over. She struggled to sit, to get to her feet, something, anything, and the Ripper shoved the blade though her chest._

Beatrice McFerguson woke with the dying gasp on her lips. The car, stolen, naturally, smelt faintly of some woman's perfume - roses and tear gas by the strength.

Paris had led to nowhere but an empty grave.

_It's full _now_ of course_, she thought, thrusting last night's nightmare with the others she had to relive when she closed her eyes. Parisians had been far more hospitable than she'd been told, but even their police would complain if they found a giant wolf on their fancy bridge. All three different set of police. Beatrice drummed her fingers against the stolen car's steering wheel, frowning. New Orleans was the best choice for a lead now, but risking another little disappearance would have her dragged in front of the Council. Again.

She turned onto the freeway, flattening the accelerator against the floor and cutting off a middle-aged couple from Ohio that had spent the flight complaining loudly about the apparent sexual orientation of the stewards.

Her cellphone rang shrilly, Greystone's voice coming out tinny and possibly even more irritating. '_Agent 0003, you are ordered to pick up.' _Beatrice groaned as she pulled over to the side of the highway. _Tóin_ she though, flicking the phone open and holding it against her ear.

"What?"

"You were reported to have gone off the grid for a period of four days," Agent 0002 informed her.

"Was I?" Beatrice asked.

"You didn't pick up when you were called to inform us of this." Greystone bulldozed over the sarcasm as he always did.

"I was in the middle of something," Beatrice said, pinching the bridge of her nose. She had, in fact, been in the middle of an empty grave, but there was no need to go into details.

"You must check in every week, or else you'll be put under inquiry. Again." Greystone's tone made it clear that he wouldn't mind that eventuality.

"My apologies Agent Greystone. My phone was stolen by a giant tattooed man." It was physically impossible for her voice to get any flatter than it already was. "I thought it best to retrieve MI13 property." She could feel him smirk over the line.

"Ensure that such foolishness won't happen again." She gave a tetchy assent, blowing a lock of dark hair out of her face. "I have been authorized to give you your new assignments."

"Congratulations." Greystone's irritation was made clear by the pointed silence. Beatrice couldn't find it with in herself to care. "Where am I headed?"

"Louisiana." The state was given curtly; he wanted her to beg for the city. She normally would have been annoyed if she hadn't been so surprised. _I'm not that lucky_, she thought. _I'm _never_ that lucky. Agent 0001 might disagree with you on that one, _a little voice said slyly.

"New Orleans?" she suggested, shoving the voice away in the dark corner that all the nightmares and other little voices went.

"Yes." Greystone's suspicion was evident and Beatrice cursed herself slightingly. The nightmares had removed the chance for any real rest on the flight back, not that it was any excuse for such a slip. There was a brain underneath all the protocol, blind obedience and resentment. If he even guessed what she'd done... "Have you already spoken to Agent Witchhazel?"

_So much for being authorized. That _voice sounded like Llew. She took a moment to dwell on the irony of Llew's mind-voice not being able to quit, unlike the real one.

"As much as I would have preferred that, no. Where else would I be going?" Beatrice said, and because Greystone would never have left it at that she continued, "You know considerably less well than I do that supernatural creatures and the like come in floods when there are calamities. Hurricanes, mass murders, tornados, etcetera, etcetera." She could hear Greystone grinding his teeth on the other end of the line. How he hated to be reminded of almost failing the theory component.

"There are several matters which acquire your particular attention," he continued as if nothing had happened. "The files have been sent to a Midtown Motel, on Tulane Avenue."

"Yes _sir_," Beatrice muttered, softly so Greystone wouldn't hear.

"The room's been paid for in advance - you have till the end of the month to deal with your assignments." _Three weeks to clear out New Orleans_. _Just in time for Samhainn._

"Duly noted, Agent Greystone. Might I be on my way?"

"In hurry?" He leapt on the possible breach in protocol in an instant, like a politician on a technicality.

"Yes, I'm meeting my fiancée," Beatrice said, a slight sarcastic edge to the words. "Americans are almost as paranoid as provocateurs: they find it suspicious when a mysterious figure in a stolen car is seen standing still for fifteen minutes. Why do you think I'm in a hurry?"

_Particularly as I've a sword in the passenger seat_, she thought glancing at were her sword lay within easy reach. Greystone's abrupt assent was punctuated with a disgusted snort at such levity on the job and the click as he hung up.

_Never been one for a touching goodbye_, Beatrice thought as she tossed the cell phone in the back seat, where it landed lightly on the heavy black coat that was covering most of the back seat. It probably wasn't healthy that the two most important things in her life was a sword and an 19th century overcoat, but that was life.

_Since when was mental health important when you kill things for a living_? A wry smirk twisting her lips for a moment, before she lent forward and flicked the radio on. The guitar solo ripped its way through the silence for a second before Beatrice switched it off again with an irritated sign.

_I _hate_ rock and roll_, she thought, exhaling sharply her nose as she turned back onto the road.

The motel was weirdly okay for the price range but hey, Dean wasn't complaining. The teenager behind the counter was droning out a list of places to eat and souvenir places and weird history stuff that Sammy would have loved if he'd been there. "Hey, you ever heard of the _De Le Fontaine_ _Theatre_?" The teenager scoffed.

"You mean the place where the idiot broke his neck a week ago? Yeah. It was shut down in like the 20th century or something," he said, flicking his overly long fringe out of his face as he accepted the phony credit card. "My step-mom used to get dared to go in there by my mom. Not that _she_ remembers that." he added handing over the room key. Dean nodded and left the building, walking right into a pretty woman in a long black coat who was muttering under her breath in a strange language as he did so.

They stumbled together for a moment, her hands automatically catching hold of his shoulders and jacket collar, while Dean's own hands wrapped around her upper arms in an effort not to send them both tumbling to the ground. She stepped away quickly the moment their balance was regained, a scowl flickering over her features as she folded her arms over her chest. Her dark hair was braided simply over one shoulder, her dark coat was buttoned up to her chin and there was an irritated look in her hazel eyes.

"_Gabhaibh mo leisgeul_?" she said gesturing for Dean to move aside. Dean put on his most charming smile and gave her a once over; partly to make sure she wasn't armed. "Excuse me," she offered in English, the accent fainter than before.

"Wow, Scottish Gaelic yeah?" he said as he stepped to one side. He hadn't heard it since the crazy ghost of the witch up in Washington, but he remembered his father running him through the basic spell the entire trip. She glanced at him over her shoulder, surprised, one hand on the door handle, her body turned slightly away from him.

"Yes," she said eventually, eyebrow arched. Dean nodded, and smiled again.

"Sorry 'bout that. I'm Dean Fogerty," he said, offering his hand. Her mouth twisted in what might have been a smile if it hadn't disappeared so fast.

"Carmen Cooper" she said politely, clasping his hand with her own.

"Shame it's not Alice," Dean said catching sight of a small black tattoo, along the inside of her wrist. Carmen gave another smile, this one lasting longer.

"I've heard that one before," she said, burying her hands in her pockets. Dean grinned shrugging.

"What brings someone like you to New Orleans? Not American," he added after she raised an eyebrow. "Not a good holiday spot anymore."

"Business trip," Carmen said, shortly. "Charity stuff."

"Really?" That earned him another eyebrow.

"Are you saying I don't look charitable?" Carmen asked flatly. Dean snorted.

"Nah. But charities are pretty posh, and they put you up in a cheep motel?"

"Struggling hospitals. Volunteer nursing isn't exactly well paid," Carmen said, shrugging as she glanced at her watch. Dean caught another glimpse of the tattoo, a Celtic looking pair of folded wings. Carmen muttered something that sounded rude under her breath in Gaelic. "I need to get started on work," she said looking up, giving a brief bright smile as she gestured vaguely at the motel. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Fogerty" she added as she started walk away backward.

"Dean," he called after her as she turned and dashed inside the motel, the door closing behind her before he could be sure she'd heard. He frowned as he walked back to the Impala, waiting a moment to make sure she wasn't going to come back out before pulling the boot open. Something wasn't right about the pretty mysterious Scot; hell most pretty, mysterious girls turned out to be monsters in need of ganking.

He called Bobby when he arrived back at the room, the cell phone jammed between his ear and shoulder as he unpacked. "_Okay, I got the scan. You sure you've done it right_?"

"'Course, I got two good looks. That the tat."

"_It's Celtic, maybe with some Pictish. There's some leaves designed in as well. They all translate to ogham script. You got a pen ready?"_

"Shoot." Dean said, pulling a pen out of his mouth and pressing the tip to the motel's notepaper.

"_Ail, twice. Beith. Saille, twice again. Ruis. Onn. Coll."_

"Got it. Thanks Bobby."

"No problem, _idjit_. Your dad there?"

"He's in the truck," Dean lied, remembering the last time John Winchester and Bobby Singer were face to face. Judging by Bobby's grunt he had only half convinced him.

"Take care of yourself, kid."

"Sure thing." Bobby hung up and Dean let the phone drop, staring at the row of words. They didn't make any sense the way they were, and he tried messing with the order to see if it might help. "Saille, Onn, Beith?" That didn't sound right. He tried again, and again and again, until scribbling Beith, Ailm and Saille next to each other. "_Beith. Ailm. Saille,"_ he muttered. "B.A.S, bas-." He blinked at the paper, filling out the remanding words and scratching out all but the first letter, until they spelt out B-A-S R-O-C-A-S. Bás Rócas. "Hell no. No _way_." He dived for the video, poking out of his duffel, shoving it into the VCR and stabbing the play button with his finger.

The grainy footage started where John Winchester had stopped it in Nebraska, with the Bás Rócas surrounded by corpses, sword dripping red. Knowing what he knew now, it was easy to see that it was a woman not a man, and in the moment before Carmen Cooper ran back the way she'd come, the camera got a clear shot of the tattoo along the inside of her wrist.

_The drug was throwing her off, causing the already shadowy room to distort and blur faintly and the edges of her vision as she fought to stay awake. The room, motivation enough to keep her eyes open, was filled with the stench of the decomposing bodies, random limbs and innards strewn across the floor, piling up around the corers, as if the butchers had simple kicked the unwanted bones, limbs and chucks of flesh to the side. Her torch threw dancing shadows along the walls, making the skulls grin, whether or not they still had bits of skin or muscle attached to white bone. The next room was where the organs had gone; hearts pickling in jars, lungs being dried and crushed into dust. Brains pulled apart into chucks, intestines dangling across the ceiling. A single live, fresh, moist and uncut lying on a bench, secreted in between long strips, which appeared to be skin. A rat scurried between her legs, a suspicious looking length of pink coloured flesh tuck between its jaws. She darted back, a shaking smile flickering across her face as she turned back. The cleaver was missing. In the dream, she didn't lift her sword up in time and one of Pengli's foot soldiers drove the meter long blade through her chest through her chest._

The stack of files that greeted the waking Beatrice was as thick as her middle finger was long. She gave an irritated sigh, rubbing her hand over her eyes. She'd fallen asleep on the file on the Axeman of New Orleans, on the page detailing the letter to the press. According to MI13's theory, it had, in fact, been a monster, much like Springheeled Jack and very much unlike the other Jack, which was the only reason she was here, instead of being set to the Sahara or Florida, some place horrible even by their psychotic standards. The clock, good quality, but generic, like the rest of the hotel room, ticked over to 3:37 as she glanced over the letter once again. Dated Hell March 13th 1919 it read:

_Esteemed Mortal, They have never caught me and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth. I am not a human being, but a spirit and a fell demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman. When I see fit, I shall come again and claim other victims. I alone know who they shall be. I shall leave no clue except my bloody axe, besmeared with the blood and brains of him whom I have sent below to keep me company. If you wish you may tell the police not to rile me. Of course I am a reasonable spirit. I take no offense at the way they have conducted their investigation in the past. In fact, they have been so utterly stupid as to amuse not only me but His Satanic Majesty, Francis Josef, etc. But tell them to beware. Let them not try to discover what I am, for it were better that they were never born than to incur the wrath of the Axeman. I don't think there is any need of such a warning, for I feel sure the police will always dodge me, as they have in the past. They are wise and know how to keep away from all harm. Undoubtedly, you Orleanians think of me as a most horrible murderer, which I am, but I could be much worse if I wanted to. If I wished, I could pay a visit to your city every night. At will I could slay thousands of your best citizens, for I am in close relationship to the Angel of Death. Now, to be exact, at 12:15 (earthly time) on next Tuesday night, I am going to visit New Orleans again. In my infinite mercy, I am going to make a proposition to you people. Here it is: I am very fond of jazz music, and I swear by all the devils in the nether regions that every person shall be spared in whose home a jazz band is in full swing at the time I have mentioned. If everyone has a jazz band going, well, then, so much the better for you people. One thing is certain and that is that some of those people who do not jazz it on Tuesday night (if there be any) will get the axe. Well, as I am cold and crave the warmth of my native Tartarus, and as it is about time that I leave your earthly home, I will cease my discourse. Hoping that thou wilt publish this, and that it may go well with thee, I have been, am and will be the worst spirit that ever existed either in fact or realm of fantasy. The Axeman_

The archaic language and reference to Tartarus did hint at the Springheeled Jack possibility, Beatrice reasoned, however the sentence about the Axeman being 'in close relationship with the Angel of Death' was pushing it. _Why did the Tóin give me this? _she wondered, her stomach rumbling rumbled as she turned the page. There was no way the Axeman could lead to anything, it had been a dead end since 1919 and would do doubt continue to be a dead end. The idea that another one of them could come through was so far out of the realms of probability it was near impossible. _Although what is probability when compared with what you've seen, _Llew's voice whispered again. _Ares comes to mind, Honeybee_. She shuddered; the fight at the Grand Canyon was a nightmare for tomorrow night though and Llew for the night after than. She forced herself to focus on the evidence in front of her, pushing thoughts of the war god and her mentor out of her mind. The two pictures were of the same theatre, one showing it pristine in black and white, the other, decrepit and in colour, were lying against the crisp white paper. The small handwritten words of the back read the _De La Fontatine Theatre_, 1901 and the _Del La Fontatine Theatre_ 2001\. Beatrice bit her lip; according to the information at given by the analysts, it was the scene for three murders in the Edwardian times that fit the Axeman's pattern with a following ten others that didn't over the course of the century. She glanced at her sword, lying in its sheath on the desk, its hilt glinting dully in the light, and back at the stack of files she still had to review. _Read and then burn_, she thought. Those were the rules, ones that had been drilled into every agent, triple zero or not, but on the other hand, the theatre in the morning would be surrounded by pedestrians and green-eyed men from Kansas.

_On the other hand, _Beatrice thought as she scowled at herself in the mirror, _I can review later. _She jolted to her feet, buckling the scabbard onto her belt and sliding her coat over her shoulders. Two sizes too big, even now, it hid the weapon perfectly, even without the charm attached to her belt that made most people forget she was ever there. She'd been able to wear it without in dragging for almost six years now, although she'd been desperate to try ever since she'd pulled it from the Ripper's back in an attempt to stop his harvest. It even hid the mark she'd been given that night, so long ago. Beatrice glanced down at the black wings trying to remember how they got there. Nothing offered itself, as it had done for the past twelve years. _Thirteen soon, _she thought with a mirthless smile_. "_Lucky me_," _she lied to the room at large, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. Beatrice was many things, but _lucky_ wasn't one of them.

The theatre was just generally creepy. Dean scowled at a cobweb that stretched almost all the way across the corridor, pulling it down with his flashlight, squashing the spider underneath his boot heel. "Go to New Orleans, It'll be fun," he muttered kicking open a side door and sticking his head inside it. It was a dressing room. "If I run into the Phantom of the Opera I swear I'm ganking him." Neither Sam nor John Winchester were there to bitchface at him or tell him to focus, but he shut up anyway.

The teenagers he'd spoken to had said that Emil Richardson had been found on the ground floor, his neck broken. "'Cause, like, he jumped from the _balcony_ thing, dude," Dean said sarcastically to a crack in the wall. None of the teens had seemed very upset about it; most had thought he'd had it coming, and from what they'd told him he'd been included to agree. Lydia, her frizzy brown hair pulled into pigtails, had assured him that Emil hadn't been as bad as the rest had said. 'Moody sure, but he didn't deserve what they're all saying' were her words. Dean wasn't sure how Emil didn't deserve it, letting his older sister go in the floods, but she'd insisted, even up to showing him the hole in the fence everyone used to sneak in.

Humming Iron Maiden under his breath, Dean went further in, tugging his EMF reader out in front of him, slipping the earphones into his ears as he held the flashlight between his teeth. By the time he'd searched the balcony Emil was said to have dropped from, he was picking up small amount of EMF, which was either a sign to call the Ghostbusters or that a minor electrical current was close by. He stepped near to a thick gash in the wall that looked like it had been stuck with an axe. He held the ex-Walkman out and grinned as the all the lights flared up red. "Yahtzee." He glanced down at the stage, looking around for anymore axe marks and caught sight of a now familiar slim figure in a long black coat, standing stock still on the stage as if she was listening for something. "_Shit_," he muttered, ducking behind the barrier. He waited, counting down slowly as a cold blue light appeared across the moth-eaten purple chairs in a matter of seconds. _She's quick at least, _Dean thought grudgingly. O_ne Mississippi, two Mississippi._ He went all the way to sixty Mississippi before getting to his feet. Sure enough, Carmen had gone, hopefully taking the stairs down to the basement. He went down the servant stairs just in case, keeping an eye out for any axe marks and debating whether or not the return later tonight. If she was who he thought she was, he didn't want to stick around to get ganked himself. Putting that firmly out of his mind, Dean turned a corner only to have a huge black bird fly out at him. He leapt out of the way with a shout of surprise, tugging the EMF speakers out of his ears as he glared after the crow. "Son of a bitch," he muttered.

"I think that's a different animal," a woman said behind him. Dean leapt around; Carmen, if that was even her name, was standing there, arms folded, hazel eyes squinting against the beam from his flashlight.

"Carmen," he said, pointing it at the floor. "Wow, uh, what are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," she pointed out. "A man was murdered here a week or so ago." Dean nodded, even though she'd said _murdered_ not _died_.

"Yeah it sucks. His sister died in Katrina, apparently." He shrugged trying to appear nonchalant.

"So why are you here?" she asked, unlocking her arms.

"A friend of mine, Bas," Dean made up on the spot. "He went missing last year, and his girlfriend, Lillian, wanted to come check it out, y'know, put down flowers or something. She had school and stuff, so I said that I'd do it." He grinned, and she gave a small smile in return.

"I could check charity databases if you want," she offered taking a step forward. _She moves like a hunter_, Dean noticed as she glanced at the hole the crow had flown out of. "What was his name?"

"Rócas," he said, his mouth opening without direction from his brain. "Sebastian Rócas."

Her shoulders stiffened for a second. "Rócas," she repeated carefully, as she burring her hands in her coat pockets, her eyes still on the crow's nest. Dean nodded.

"Sebastian. Bás. Rócas." He rolled the 'r' and she looked up at him, hazel eyes illuminated by the flashlight and cold. He would have normally said they were hunter eyes, but in this case there was something else, something darker. "Your name isn't Carmen," he said, his tone light and normal.

"No," she agreed, drawing her hands out of her pocket. Dean's eyes followed the right as Not-Carmen tossed the small sliver flashlight at him, the blue light blinding as it spun. Dean swiped it out of the air, blinking rapidly, and felt a hand close around the collar of his leather jacket. The Bás Rócas stared at him over the razor shape edge of her sword. "I suggest not trying anything."

"Y'know, normally when I'm this close to a pretty girl we both have something else in mind," Dean said. The Bás Rócas arched an eyebrow and he grinned, catching hold of her right hand and twisted it away sharply. She ducked under his arm, pulling her wrist free and her sword away from his throat. Dean leapt away before she could finish the maneuver and end up behind him. She followed quickly, swinging it down as he pulled out his gun. The tip sliced open the back of his hand and Dean bit back a grunt of pain, the semi automatic falling to the floor.

"How did you find me?" The Bás Rócas asked evenly, leveling the sword at his neck as she kicked the Colt .45 through the bannister and down onto the first floor. Dean watched it go with a wince.

"It that's broken I'm not going to held responsible," he tip of her sword prickled as she pressed it against his chest.

"I'm not going to ask you again."

"If you're famous you're going to have fans," he said with a grin. Not Carmen narrowed her eyes at him, opening her mouth as his hand closed around something long and thin. He brought it round, knocking her sword back. She let hang by her side and she arched a disbelieving eyebrow at the weapon in his hand, her mouth twitching slightly.

"A broom handle?" she said, eyeing the length of wood. Dean shrugged.

"If you want to trade," he suggested, swinging it at her head. She stepped to the side, shearing it neatly in half. The two useless pieces clattering to the floor as Dean tackled her to the ground, forcing her hand open. The sword flying from her hand and down the stairs. She threw her weight forward so she was pining him to the ground and punched him square in the face. Dean caught her other hand and swung them round again. He tried to press is forearm against her throat and she batted his hand away. They rolled down the corridor, grappling with each other, until one of Not-Carmen's elbows jabs tipped them both down the stairs. Instinctively Dean's drew her closer, wrapping his arms around her as she caught hold of his jacket and twisted. Dean didn't realize what the hell she was trying to do until he caught sight of the set of rusty iron nails sticking up out of an upturned floorboard, just before they hit the landing with a thud. The impact broke them apart, Dean being sent head first into the wall.

"Son of a _bitch_," he muttered, pushing himself up onto his knees, a hand to his head. He heard Not-Carmen let out a small gasp of pain and he turned his head towards her automatically.

She was sitting up, a small circle hole in her dark hands surrounded by a think patch of what looked like blood. She threw a red piped nail away, a pained look flickering across her face as she prodded at the cut. She'd pulled her coat open to get to the wound and he caught sight of a pale silver scar running along her collar-bone before disappearing under her muted red shirt. It main him feel strangely guilty, even she'd attacked him first. Dean shifted over as close as he dared, pushing himself onto the balls of his feet as she lent back with her eyes closed, muttering under her breath in Gaelic.

"D'you?" he began, holding out his hand. Her eyes snapped open, her hand snapping out catching his own in a vise like grip, flipping him head over heals. Her good leg snapped out and Dean went down the Second flight of stairs, landing heavily on the first floor.

"Last time I try to be nice," he muttered, getting to his feet with a groan. A glint of moonlight on metal caught his eye and he turned his head to see his nickel-plated.45. He moved to it as quickly as his bruised body and the little fact of the psyco assassin at the top of the stairs let him. By the time it was in his hand, the Bás Rócas was on her feet, sword in hand. Her back was to him, but he pointed the gun at her anyway as he walked back up the stairs, finger on the trigger. One of the boards cracked under his feet and she turned sword at the ready. Super hunter or not, she was keeping weight of her injured leg. Dean could see a strange charm hanging off her belt made up of ancient-looking beads and coins, something Sammy would know about.

"That's not going to work," she said, nodded towards his gun. Dean arched a challenging eyebrow and she held up his magazine in response, raising her own eyebrows with a smirk. He chuckled.

"It's a semi," he pointed out. The Bás Rócas shrugged her shoulders.

"You have a shot," she said.

"Who says I need more than one," Dean said keeping nine steps between them. _She might be Kill Bill, but that only works close range, _he thought_._

"I speak from experience," she replied dryly as she pointed the sword at him. "It's going to take more than one round to stop me. Can you say the same without a head?"

"Listen Black Mamba, I'm not trying to kill you," he began.

"If I had a penny," she cut in, flatly unimpressed. Police sirens echoed from somewhere close by. Dean glanced over his shoulder, to make sure no one was going to come bursting through the front door. When he looked back, barely a moment later, the Bás Rócas had closed the gap between them. She caught hold of his wrist and twisted, pulling the Colt .45 from his grip as she turned, driving an elbow into his stomach. She cracked the hilt of her sword against the side of his head and Dean stumbled in pain, his vision foggy. He felt someone catch him before he could fall onto his face and lower him onto his knees. "Eyes open," Not Carmen snapped slapping his face lightly. Dean groaned, forcing his eyes open.

"Bite me," he muttered as she cupped his check with her hand, gentle for a moment before she yanked his mouth open. She shoved a bitter taste pill into his mouth and forced his jaw shut before he could spit it out.

"Swallow," Not-Carmen hissed. Dean glared at her and did nothing. She squared her jaw and clapped a hand over his mouth, pinching his nose shut. "Do it or I will suffocate you." Dean held on for at least three minutes as the sirens drew closer before swallowing. Not-Carmen pulled away instantly, seizing his jacket collar and dragging him to his feet. He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open.

"Whawazat?" he managed, lifting his head to look at the woman dragging him up the stairs. She ignored him, dragging him into a corridor as red and blue lights filed the street outside.

_Dad's going to be so please, _Dean thought as he started to pass out. _I wonder if he'll tell Sammy._


	3. Chapter 2: My Little Kelpie

The next thing he knew, he was lying in his motel room with a headache the size of the Jolly Green Giant. Dean sat up with a groan, putting a hand to his head, looking round his motel room with bleary eyes. His gun was lying on the bedside table with Baby's keys and his wallet. Hell, even his hand, where not-Carmen's sword had sliced though his skin, had been bandaged. He swiped a hand over his face, scowling briefly as the bitter taste of whatever had been shoved in his mouth came back in full force. "Son of a bitch," he muttered to no one in particular as he stood up, pulling a flannel shirt over his shoulders. The Bás Rócas hadn't just patched him up and left; his bag had been searched though, and his fake stacked a little too neatly. _Great, the real life equivalent of the frickin' Highlander's been going through my stuff_, he thought as he shoved a fresh magazine into his gun, tucking it into the waistband of his jeans. He looked around for his leather jacket, which should have been left on the chair. Read: should have been. "Son-of a bitch." Dean repeated staring at the empty spot in horror.

He pulled his second favourite jacket from his duffle and was in the hall before he bothered to start putting it on, grumbling to himself about damn Scots with sticky fingers. The same teenager from before was at the front desk as well, his hair still hanging over one eye, still scowling. _This day is just getting better and better.  
_

"Hey," Dean said stuffing his hands into his pockets. The teenager ignored him, keeping his head bent to the Gameboy, a battered Walkman stuck over his ears. Dean shook his head in exasperation and tugged the headphones of the teenager's head. The teen, whose name tag said declared that his name was Dirk with far more politeness than the boy himself managed, glared at him.

"How can I help you?" he muttered sullenly.

"Did you see one of the other tenants leave?" Dean asked.

"I am not authorized-" the teen began and Dean rolled his eyes, pushing a 20-dollar bill across the desk. The teenager took it instantly.

"Dark hair, Scottish," he continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "Maybe in a dark coat. Pretty in a scary way." Dirk nodded.

"Cooper? She left, like, an hour ago." The desk boy peered at him from underneath his fringe.

"Did she say where she was going?" Dean prompted.

"No." Dean rolled his eyes and was about to turn away when the teen continued. "But she did take one of the brochures." Dean glanced at the set of glossy cover, each showing a different muggy hell to get lost in, and took one of his own.

"Did she say why?" Dean asked, resting his elbow on the desk as he pushed over another 20

"Nah," Dirk shrugged as he pocketed the second bill, "but she did ask which one had been in the papers."

"Papers?" Dean repeated. Dirk, nodded in a way that made it clear he thought Dean was an idiot.

"The one where they found all the skeletons last month. Don't know why, case was closed. Drowned or gators." Dirk looked up from his Gameboy when he heard the door close, just catching sight of Dean's back as he ran down the stairs. He shrugged and pulled his headphones back on, his cracking voice singing tonelessly along.

* * *

Beatrice glanced around at the green wetness around her and frowned. It had been slow going since she'd stepped off the path, and it had steadily gotten worse; the ground was boggy more often than not, and she had to duck out of the way of low hanging trees bearing huge curtains of Spanish moss and force her way through clumps of thick, nigh on impenetrable bushes. The air was the type of hellish mugginess that was typical for Louisiana, the sun was still shinning with the irritating strength of an American summer and there were still mosquitos clinging on to life before winter. Eventually, though she reached the correct inlet. It was small, barely ten feet across, and almost unnaturally still, in spite of the Spanish moss fluttering in the wind. Judging by its positioning, from this base, it could reach the tourist hotspots where the disappearances had occurred with ease. Beatrice knelt, pulling the report out of the jacket pocket. She scanned the page, and sighed, glancing back at the water.

"Damn," she muttered as she straightened, sliding out of the leather jacket. _This is not going to be fun_, she thought, keeping her eyes on the water as she tossed the jacket over a low hanging tree branch and stretched her arms above her head. Going in would be next to suicidal on a normal day, and even worse with the gash on her leg. Luckily, Beatrice was used to suicidal.

She turned back to the jacket, running through facts and data from the case-files as she unhooked the bridle on her belt. A click sounded behind her; someone, and she thought she knew whom, had thumbed back the hammer of a gun.

"Hello Dean. How did you find me?" she asked without bothering to turn around.

"Kid at the desk has an eye for pretty girls," Dean Winchester said as he lent on her shoulder to retrieve his jacket. Beatrice closed her eyes, cursing herself silently as Dean nudged her away from the tree line. She should have killed him the previous night - that _was_ the standard protocol for dealing with enemy combatants, _particularly_ mercenaries, which all the evidence pointed to him being. _Hired guns are becoming recurring problem_, she thought. The ones sent by the monster trading crime syndicates and the ex-soldiers that had flocked to Ares came to mind. The fake I-Ds, credit cards and weapons she'd found in Winchester's room and car trunk pointed towards him being a mercenary, but there was still the niggling doubt, in spite of the evidence. He'd said the he wasn't trying to kill her in the theatre, and he'd certainly seemed sincere, but people could say anything; you'd still find a knife between your shoulder blades one day. Beatrice exhaled shaking her head slightly as she cleared her mind. At any rate, she couldn't have him interfering.

She grabbed his arm and flipped him over her shoulder, letting herself be carried with him as she drew her Bowie knife. They landed on the ground heavily, Dean pinned beneath her with her Bowie knife at his throat.

"This seems familiar," he said, grinning cockily. Beatrice arched a dark eyebrow, tapping his chin with her knife as a reminder.

"You have five seconds to tell me who you are and what you think you're doing, Winchester, or-." Out of the corner of her eye something's head broke through the water. She froze, her hand tightening on his collar as she watched the thing continue to rise out of the water, automatically closing a hand around Dean's jaw to stop him from turning his head. "Don't. You'll startle it."

"What the hell am I going to startle?" he hissed as she pressed the knife against his chin, gritting her teeth. The appearance of the monster complicated things. Option one, she could knock Winchester out and deal with the monster, which was stupid as a) he could wake up at any time and there was no way she could fight off both a probable phooka and someone with his skill and b) she couldn't be focused on protection an unconscious cocky American and fight a monster at the same time. Option two said to put Winchester out of commission permanently, which would mean that the monster would smell his blood and moved to feed, which would therefore give her time to reach the bridle... If Agent 0002 had been in her place and not lying barely scraped out grave in rural China, he'd be dead already. _Then again, Agent 0002 wore double denim. You can't be right with double denim_, the Llew like voice whispered in her mind. She shoved it away, cringing slightly as the image of Agent 0002's final moments flashed into her mind. _Not now, _Beatrice thought grimly, tightening her grip on the knife as she forced herself back to the Louisiana bayou. Logically, the only reason to keep Dean Winchester alive was because of the slim chance of his innocence.

Beatrice bit her lip, sighed and pulled the knife away from his throat.

"Slowly, or I'll put your eye out," she hissed, nodding toward the water. Dean rolled his eyes at her threat, the action deliberately exaggerated to make it clear that he could go as fast as he damn well pleased, but looked over slowly anyway.

"Fugly son of a bitch," he said softly. Beatrice felt the corner of her mouth twitch up and tried to force it down. _Don't be charmed _she thought remembering the last time _that_ had happened.

"Don't make any sudden movements," she muttered to him as she slid off to crouch beside him. Dean opened his mouth to say something and she clapped a hand over his mouth. "And shut up," she added, turning to face the monster that had half raised itself from the murky bayou water.

The grey-black pony was watching her, shark like rows of pointed serrated teeth lining its muzzle like jaw, water dripping from its flotsam-tangled mane. Its yellow eyes peered out from behind its shaggy mane and Beatrice caught sight of the reverse hooves with a thrill of horror. _It's a kelpie_ she realized._ It's a blasted kelpie_. She was going to kill the incompetent fool who classified it as a phooka.

"Dean, get up," she said quickly.

"Make up your mind," he complained, glaring up at her.

"_Amadan_!" She slapped his chest. "Get up, _now_." A second later she decided that he was going to slow and dragged him up with her, keeping her eyes fixed on the monster. The thing masquerading as a horse pawed at the ground as Beatrice checked her exits. Naturally, there were none, which, of course, left only one option. She passed her Bowie knife to Dean over her shoulder, feeling for the bridle at her belt. Her hand met empty air. "Shit."

"What? Dean asked as he took the knife.

"The bridle. It needs to be bound by something, which I _had_ before you blundered in," she hissed.

"Who threw the first punch," Dean muttered in reply, annoyed. "It's over by the trees."

"_Shit."_

"Problem?"

"Considering that if we turn we're dead," she told him, her eyes fixed on the kelpie, "if we attack without the bridle we're dead and if we provoke it-."

"We're dead," Dean finished as she heard him looked back at the bridle. "Yeah, we have a problem." Beatrice gave a dry snort. "So one of us goes for the bridle, the other holds off the Creature from the Black Lagoon."

"Pretty much," she agreed, unbuckling her belt and letting it drop as she drew her sword. The kelpie seemed to recognize it and disappeared under the murky water_. _

"So do you want heads or-," Dean began behind her as she considered the unnaturally innocent looking water. _This is going to suck_, Beatrice thought and she dived in.  
The water was dark and cloudy, and deeper than she thought, the muddy floor was barley visible a few meters bellow. She turned slowly in the water, and only just saw the kelpie as it lunged at her, eyes a bright, impossible yellow. She jerked back instinctively, her foot met hard rock and she pushed herself out of the way of the gapping maw, its rows of shark like teeth glinting as her free hand reached out blindly. She caught hold of the dorsal fin, and lost her grip on the seal like skin as the monster jerked away wildly. The kelpie swung around, it's many rows of teeth snapping and it's teeth managed to rake several lines down her arm as she pulled away. She slashed her sword at its face in response, the blade biting deep into the monster's eye and pale blood mixed in the water with the red. A hoof slammed into her stomach and the air was forced out of her lungs in a torrent of bubbles.  
When they cleared, the kelpie was gone, hiding just out of sight. Beatrice turned slowly in the water, wisps of her dark hair drifting around her face with the blood slowly escaping from her wounded arm. Her lungs were burning, but she couldn't risk going to the surface for air. Black spots danced in from of her blurred vision and she felt a slight push against her neck as water was displaced behind her. She spun around, swinging her sword down and up though the water. It cut deep into the kelpie's chest, the blade disappearing almost up to its hilt as the monster appeared suddenly in the gloom. The monster screamed, its long muzzle opening wide to reveal its many rows of jagged teeth.  
A child's hair tie was caught around one.  
Her stomach dropped in a horror that never really seemed to fade with use as the kelpie's speed carried them both out of the water. Its hooves hit the ground and her back slammed against the dirt, one hand shaken loose from the hilt of her sword. The kelpie's long jaw dived towards her neck and she threw up her hand, catching it by the throat with inches to spare. It screamed, unable to reach her neck, it's hooves tearing up the soft ground and it's shark-like teeth snapping in effort. She gritted her teeth at the pain of holding the kelpie's head in place with her injured arm as she tried to inch her sword out of its chest. _Well looks like Winchester scarpered, _a voice in the back of her head whispered in is unhelpful manner_._ Beatrice ignored it and kicked at on of the monster's back legs. The kelpie snarled at her and she caught a face full of breath flavoured with rotten meat and mud. She gagged and felt her fingers loosen. The monster sensed its victory and pushed forward. Beatrice lost a few precious inches, let go of her sword and drove her fist into the monster's wounded eye. It screamed, pulling back in pain and then dived at her again. _Must be fixated on you,_ the voice said again. _Well thank you for that_ she thought, wedging both hands under the kelpie's jaw.

"Heads up," a familiar voice called. Beatrice glanced up instinctively and felt her eyes widen in surprise. She let her hands drop from the monster's throat, took a moment to rip her sword from its chest, and pressed against the ground as the kelpie monster jerked away in surprise.

The gun fired three times; the first bullet went through the its neck and the kelpie reared, front legs kicking out wildly. The second and third slammed into it's chest, the thick white blood spilling out of two holes as Beatrice scrambled out of the way out the monster's landing zone. "So silver doesn't work," Dean commented as he pulled her to her feet, the bridle hanging off his wrist like a bizarre fashion statement and her knife tucked into his belt.

"Nothing will. Not without being bound," she said as the kelpie's reversed hooves slammed down. The monster growled at them, advancing slowly, its hooves stained with white blood. One of the gore caked front legs pawed at the ground, as if judging the terrain and Beatrice swore. Dean glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and she gestured for him to go right. He gave a short, sharp nod, tucking his gun into the back of his jeans and pulling her Bowie knife out instead. _He's a soldier in any case_, she thought as the monster charged. She went left, Dean went right and as the monster turned to go after her he plunged the knife into its good eye. It's nostrils flared as it caught onto Dean's sent and Beatrice raked her sword down its slide. She jumped backwards as its head snapped round to her.

"Hey, ugly," Dean called, the kelpie turned back and lunged at him and he let it drive its head into the bridle. The kelpie gasped out a weak, pitiful scream as he pulled it tight. Beatrice stepped forwards, shoving her sword through the kelpie's flank. The sword sliced though the monster's heart and she tugged it back, letting the kelpie dissolve into murky bayou water, the bridle and her knife dropping to the ground along with the hair tie and other mementos from it's previous victims. She and Dean looked at the puddle that had been trying to kill them a few seconds previously and vestiges of the kelpie's food that decorated it, panting. "That's mostly kid stuff," Dean said after a while, in the drained voice of one who had seen similar sights before, and hated it. Beatrice nodded wearily, scooping up her bridle and knife.

"It usually is," she agreed, her tone matching his. They looked at each other, the shared experience bridging the previous mistrust, for the moment at least.

"Dean Winchester," he said, his grin making it clear that he knew she'd been through his things and the corner of her mouth quirked up in response.

"Beatrice McFerguson," she returned, forcing herself not to shiver as a breeze blew through the clearing.

"So what happens now?" Dean asked as he pulled his leather jacket around his shoulders. Beatrice raised a dark eyebrow.

"I get my damn coat," she said, picking a clump of underwater plant off her sword hilt and flicking it at him out of nothing more than spite, "and you tell me everything you know."

"Or what," Dean asked turning to look at her. "You'll kill me and leave me in a ditch?" He flashed that cocky grin again and she glared at him for a moment before shrugging.

"Company policy," she deadpanned, buckling her sheath back in place and wiping her sword on a clump of Spanish moss before sliding it back in its sheath

"Well then, quid pro quo Clarice," Dean replied wiggling his eyebrows. She shot him an incredulous look and he shrugged. "Take it or leave it." Beatrice considered him for a moment and nodded, which brought back that grin of his.

"I still might kill you," she told him as she turned away.

"Whatever you say Highlander."

* * *

_A manicured hand straightened the vase of dark red roses and paused to tap a polished fingernail against the glass. Debra Motes flicked a lock of straightened auburn hair out of her face and allowed herself a smile, before her phone rang, breaking the stillness of the apartment. She took a moment to glance at the man in a suit, perched stiffly at the end of a crisp white sofa before taking the phone into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her a silently as she could. "Hello?" she whispered, flicking both taps and the single showerhead on, the cell phone jammed between her ear and her shoulder. After a moment, her frown softened. "Oh it's just you...No I wasn't expecting anyone else." Outside, the man in the suit suffered from a mortal case of broken neck and hit the floor with a dull thud, his sightless eyes staring sightlessly at the impassive face of his killer. Debra took a moment from her phone call and stuck her head out the bathroom door. The man in the suit was missing. Debra frowned, inching her way forward.  
__"Hazel?" she called, holding her phone against her chest. "Hazel if your cat knocked over the flowers..." A clammy hand closed around her wrist and Debra jumped. "Don't scare me like that," she snapped, wrenching her arm out of Hazel's grip. He stared at her, eyes glassy and set his hands on her shoulders, dropping them down heavily, creasing her silk blouse. They look oddly pale, as if the heart (if Hazel had ever had one) had stopped beating. She pulled back again, the offending hands falling limply to her fiancé's side. "Don't." Debra turn away with a dramatic toss of red hair, only to come face to face with a man, his face a mass of heavy stitches and one gaping hole in place of an eye. She gasped in horror, stepped back instinctively.  
Hazel's arms wrapped around her chest and clammy, dead hand clamped her mouth shut before she scream, leaving her to struggle in vain as the patchwork man fastened his hands around her throat. _

* * *

Dean drove the Impala steadily down the empty, wilderness-lined road. His leather jacket was secure around his shoulders and one female Highlander was in the passenger seat, her arms folded, still managing to look intimidating while being soaked through. The only thing dry about Beatrice was her coat, which she'd recovered from a stolen car back at the nature park. "Who are you?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

"Why d'you get to go first?" Dean asked in an automatic bid to buy time.

"Because I won last night," she retorted, a wry twist to her mouth that Dean guessed took the place of a smile, "and I can kill you in seven ways right now. "

"You didn't _win_," Dean said after a moment, shifting round in his seat to face her. Beatrice raised her eyebrows and said nothing. "Fine," he conceded. "My dad and me, we're hunters." He shrugged. "Kind of the family business. My brother and I were raised to it, after my mom died." A question flashed into her eyes for a moment. "Anyway," Dean continued quickly before he accidently set Bee's mysterious employers on Sammy's Sanford riding ass, "Dad thought a vengeful spirit might be hanging 'round the theatre and he sent me to check it out," Dean explained.

"That doesn't explain how you knew about me," she reminded him, eyes narrowing.

Dean folded his arms across his chest. "Well its my turn to ask a question Clarice," he reminded her with his best cocky smile. "What are you doing in New Orleans?" She sighed.

"If anyone knew I was telling you this..."

"Let me guess: they'd kill me," Dean suggested. Her shoulders moved up slightly, as if to say _yeah, pretty much._

"I was ordered here," she said after a moment, eyes fixed on the road in front of them. "My handlers gave me three weeks to finish my assignments. The kelpie was one of them. Even if some _tóin_ decided it was a phooka," she added under her breath, scowling. "How do you know about me?" she continued, sliding back in to Terminator mode. Dean shrugged.

"Most hunters think you're just a myth," he said. "I did too, but a friend of my dad's found a security tape of you, killing a bunch of ghouls. You couldn't see your face, but it picked up the tattoo." He nodded at her wrist and she glanced down at it, rubbing a thumb along the black wings. The lines were faintly blurred, Dean realized. _Like someone had burnt it onto her_.

"Where?" she asked.

"Upstate New York. Ship yard," he said automatically before he remembered that it was his turn. He scowled at her as she closed her eyes, an actual grin on her face however faint it was.

"Damn security tapes," she said after a moment turning to look at him. Dean gave a snort of agreement. "Your turn."

"You're not going to kill me," Dean guessed.

"Stating your question doesn't count," Beatrice said flatly. "And no," she added, her eyes softening from steal to rock, or maybe just 'a hard place'. "I'm not going to kill you." He grinned and shrugged, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

"What the hell is a kelpie?" he asked. "Never come across one before and I don't think my dad has either." Beatrice shot him a strange look.

"Never?" she repeated. Dean nodded and she shrugged. "They aren't as common as others here," she admitted. "The kelpie is a breed of flesh eating Celtic water spirit."

"You mean Fugly has cousins?" Dean asked as he started up the car. "Awesome."

Beatrice eyebrows bobbed up in agreement. "The _Each Usige_ is even worse. At least kelpies drown their meals first."

"This one liked to eat kids," he said, his hands tightening on the steering wheel as he turned the Impala down into streets that were more closely linked with civilization.

"Most flesh-eaters do. In the early 1800s the Russians caught one for experimental purposes. Over the years the human contact forced it into _something_ close to human. Said the meat was sweeter."

"They kill it?"

"Burnt it to a crisp apparently."

"Good to know," Dean said, which made another wry twist flicker across her face. "So, uh, thanks for not leaving me to the cops," he added to the cassette player. Beatrice craned her head to look at him.

"You're welcome," she said smiling properly for the first time. She had a pretty smile, he noticed for a completely objective reason. "Thanks for sticking around," she said to dashboard.

"'Welcome," he echoed. "So how'd a Celtic monster get to New Orleans?" he asked, moving back into the safer territory of hunting.

"Same way all non native monsters got here," Bee replied matter-of-factly. "They came with the people, and the people came from everywhere. America is the world's biggest monster mash."

"So we're just monster Detroit or something?" Dean asked, turning down a relatively empty road. Beatrice let out a surprised laugh. If she was generally pretty and more so when she smiled, laughing was a whole other level. _Okay so she's very pretty, _Dean thought, grinning as well._ This is business. _

"Congratulations," she offered dryly, the ghost of laughter still in her voice.

"And that's why MI6 sent you over here?"

"MI_13_ sent me to America as punishment," Bee corrected. "I'm here in New Orleans because natural disasters have a tendency to dredge up things that were best left lying." Dean nodded. Pastor Jim had said as much when John had called a month or so back.

"What about you? It's not as if you have deadlines to meet," she said dryly.

"I just follow my Dad's lead," Dean said, shrugged and leaving out _unlike Sammy. _"It's just the two off us, so we don't usually separate, but he figured whatever was going on at the theatre was a simple salt and burn job."

"He thought it was a ghost?" Bee asked, a slight incredulous edge o her voice.

"13 deaths, not including disappearances, since Katrina" Dean pointed out.

"Four stabbings, six suicides, two accidents and one heart attack," she rattled off. "Doesn't exactly sound like a ghost." Dean scowled at the car ahead. "Besides its not like anything would try and take an Axeman site. It'd be like resettling Chernobyl."

"Axeman?" Dean repeated.

"Serial Killer. One of the cities more famous ones. Never caught." She gave one of those wry mouth twists again, before turning to look up the street. The little history lesson dislodged a Bás Rócas story form his brain and he opened him mouth to mention it when he saw her stiffen beside him out of the corner of his eye.

"Dean, pull over," Bee said suddenly. He took one look at her suddenly completely still face and quickly followed her gaze. A large crowd had grouped together on the pavement, shuffling as a handful of policemen were trying to clear a path.

The Impala's wheels had barely stopped moving before Beatrice was out of the car, her sword safely hidden under her coat. Dean didn't bother stopping to think; he snatched up a fake F.B.I badge and followed.

* * *

Beatrice crouched beside the body while Dean cajoled the police into giving up their information. As the local law enforcement had already proved more likely to listen to an F.B.I agent than MI6, she left him to it. The corpse was recently deceased, and had once been a young woman with long red hair and, judging by the jewelry around her neck, a taste for the finer things. The gold necklace lay stark against the purple bruise around Debra Motes' neck, which was twisted at an odd angle. The police at the scene unanimously said suicide ("Guilt," said an older man with hard eyes, which brought forth murmurs of agreement.), which made her prick her ears as Dean repeated the word cautiously.

"Lawyer," a policeman said shortly.

"Soulless lawyer," another clarified unhelpfully.

"Thank you for that gentlemen," Dean replied with almost imperceptible sarcasm. The police seemed to notice and drifted away to deal with the crowd, read: gossip. Beatrice could hear the snide comments from her place by the body as she fished the victim's dark red address book and matching wallet out of the purse that was lying on its side beside her. "So apparently those were caused by suicide," Dean said dryly, nodding to the bruises as he crouched on the other side of the corpse.

"What would you expect from such crack police officers," Beatrice commented flatly. "The strangler wore a ring, whoever they were," she continued, gesturing at the shallow cut in the victim's neck. "And I found this in her hand." She handed the leathery substance to Dean who took it, curious.

"What is it?" he asked, turning it over for a mark of some kind.

"Human skin," Beatrice replied calmly.

"Jesus, Bee," Dean protested, thrusting it back at her, nose wrinkled in fastidious disgust. She threw him a look that might have been smug, tucking the flap into an inside pocket of her coat. "I found some near where Emil landed in the theater as well."

"Before you unjustly attacked me," Dean agreed, grinning in response to her glare. "Y'know, people didn't care for Emil either. Apparently he left his family behind in Katrina to save himself." He glanced at Debra Motes pale, dead face. "If Motes swindled people out of insurance or something, maybe someone's out for revenge, or some perverted kind of justice."

Beatrice considered this theory for a moment, hazel eyes incomprehensible are she frowned faintly at him, and then nodded slowly.

"I'll check her records, see if you're right," she decided handing Dean the victim's address book. "There are only two numbers listed in special contacts, you should go check them out."

"So we're working together on this?" Dean asked her as the got to their feet, almost in time.

"Unless you think you're not up to it," Beatrice replied with a wry smile. He pulled a face at her and turned away to hide his own grin.

"Oh I'm up to it Highlander," he retorted as he ducked under the yellow police tape.

"Enough with the damn nicknames, Winchester," she called after him. Dean threw her a salute with a cocky smile that clearly meant he was going to ignore that request. Bee shook her head amused in spite of herself and watch him drive away before turning flicking open the wallet she'd taken from the victim's purse flicked though the contents. Sure enough, Motes had had a shiny new business built only a few blocks from her apartment. Beatrice glanced back at the body which was being lifted into the back of a police vehicle for a moment, then pulled her coat tighter around her and set off.

* * *

Dean was cleaning his gun in the methodical calming way John Winchester had taught him, waiting round the corner from the motel when a hand wrapped at his window. He might have jumped a little, but then the door opened and Bee slipped into the passenger's seat, a beat up backpack in her hand. "'Bout time you got back," he said companionably, snapping the magazine back into place.

"Had to call into the agency," she replied, the ghost of a smile that had been playing across her face at time appearing briefly. "But you were right about Motes. She won several court battles for insurance companies who weren't willing to pay for the hurricane damage. Earned over two million dollars, which explains the fancy apartment and the new business office." Dean shook his head, disgusted, as he often was, with the rich who needed to be richer. "What did you find out?"

"One of them, who as it turns out, was Motes man on the side who was going to run away with her, wasn't very helpful, but did manage to give me her usual contacts, including a florist." Dean shrugged and Bee's wry twist appeared for a moment. "But the other one, Hazel Ashwood, her actual boyfriend, disappeared two days ago, according to his housekeeper." Bee's eyebrows went up in surprise.

"Hazel _Ash_wood," she repeated flatly. Dean laughed; he'd had the same reaction when the irritated housekeeper had told him. "Did he fit the profile?"

"Y'mean was he a jerk?" Dean translated, mostly to irritate his new, chance-dictated, hunter partner. Bee threw him a look and he grinned. "Yep. I think his housekeeper would have aired out all of his dirty laundry if I'd had the time." He reached into the back and returned with the two tubs of étouffée that had been keeping warm under his jacket. He handed one to Bee and set to work on his own without a word. Beatrice smiled down at the meal, both surprised and touched, and also started eat.

"There's something else as well," she said, pulling a folded photograph out of her pocket. "Take a look." Dean frowned down at the faded image.

"That's Emil," he said around a mouthful of étouffée. "There's Motes, and that's Ashwood." He swallowed. "They were connected more than just being jerks, then." Bee nodded.

"And you see those two," she said, pointing out a smiling woman at the side of the group shot and another with frizzy hair. "She's a florist and the other lives out in the bayou somewhere. I found their addresses with the photo. In Motes's _safe_."

"So y'think one of these two is next?" he asked. Beatrice shrugged.

"Either that or they're the killer," she said. On that pleasant note, both turned their attention back to the étouffée.

Beatrice paused, her plastic spoon suspended in mid-air for a moment, before she let it drop back into the tub and hastily started rummaging in her pocket. Dean frowned at her, easing her almost finished meal off her lap before any could spill on his baby. His expression quickly shifted to disgust when the square of human skin appearing in her hand.

"Why d'you keep waving that around?" he asked, pulling a face.

"This has been sewed together with something," Beatrice said, ignoring him.

"What, like Frankenstein?" Dean glanced out the front window and frowned_. _

"Maybe."

"Hey Bee?"

"Mmm." She looked up at him; Dean was still staring out the front window at a figure shambling down the sidewalk. There was something off about the way he moved and the way he held his head, as if his body couldn't hold it up.

"That look weird to you?" he asked. She nodded, her hand falling to the hilt of her sword.

The figure raised his head, and both Beatrice and Dean saw the patchwork face.

"The fuck is that?" Dean said.

"It's a zombie." Beatrice rolled down the passenger window as quickly as she could, throwing the square of skin out on two the road. A hand closed on her wrist and Hazel Ashwood's bloodless face appeared in the window. She rolled her wrist around until the viselike grip released itself. The hand reached forward; she rolled up the window and with a shatter of bone some of the fingers fell into her lap. The fingerless hand started the hammer on the window, and then disappeared. Bee and Dean looked at each other in the silent question of _where'd it go'.  
_The idea came to them at almost the same time; both Beatrice and Dean looked around and saw what they had been dreading. The zombies had them surrounded, twenty five in all, standing a few feet away from the car, most armed with rotting planks of wood and some with rusted gardening tools. The patchwork zombie let out a wordless roar, it's mouth opening far wider than was normally possible and the other's started to rush forward far faster than Dean was happy with. He slammed the Impala into gear and floored the accelerator. The car shot forward, knocking the unlucky ones down. They swerved around the patchwork leader and then rounded the corner at defiantly illegal speeds.

"Voodoo. It's fucking voodoo," Dean said, eyes fixed on the road. Bee unwound her window to stab the ones that had gotten close enough to grab hold of his baby's side mirror and door handles. They fell back to the road, most minus a head, and she chucked Ashwood's fingers out after them, before rolling up the window and leaning back in her seat.

"Zombies," she said her eyes closed. "I hate zombies." Dean snorted in agreement and didn't bother slowing down as they sped through the darkened city streets.


End file.
